


Mark You Up

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Ending, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Back rubs, Bathing, Butt Plugs, Cuddling, Frank is an Angry Dom, Hand Jobs, I'm going straight to Hell, M/M, Masochism, Matt is a Bratty Sub, Ownership, PWP, Power Dynamics, Power Play, Restraints, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-09-28 02:13:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17173910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: Frank tries to teach Matt the importance of body armour.PWP. Now with a softer alternate ending.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Written for a prompt on Tumblr – “My kingdom for The Punisher punishing Matt like a naughty child by spanking him. I’m OBSESSED with seeing your take on this.” I was initially reluctant to write this, but I found I couldn’t shake the idea. Thanks to the prompter; I hope you like this. I hope you all like this. It’s probably part 1 of something. Hell if I know what. Enjoy!

* * *

 

Mark You Up

Guess it’s the one upside to Red not wearing armour: ain’t difficult to drop his drawers. Hell, his pants are thin enough that Frank doesn’t wait to get ‘em down before he lays a couple of smacks on Red’s pert little ass, warms up the cheeks a bit before bruising.

               They tried it over the legs a couple-a times, but Red’s a wormy little shit. Can twist and squirm his way out of holds at the best of times. Got no problems bending himself into a pretzel to boot Frank in the face, to punch Frank in the throat. Restraints are necessary, Frank tells himself. He installs manacles on the legs of the workbench to clamp around Red’s ankles. Then it’s a quick tussle to get some handcuffs on Red’s wrists (if Frank hasn’t done that already). Some nights he puts Red’s hands to the front and pulls them forward, bending Red at the waist over the bench. Some nights, the bad nights, when Red’s done something extra stupid, Frank cuffs the Devil’s hands behind his back, then he tugs Red’s arms overhead till they strain, till Red’s yelling into the tabletop, till there’s an inch between him and two dislocated shoulders.

               Tonight’s one of those nights.

               Frank lays a couple of hits in for starters: “You feel that, Red? Huh? Feel that?” Red definitely feels it. He groans, straining against his bonds, arms shaking in the arc above his back. His ass is pink with handprints when Frank gets his pants down, and he’s as red as his old suit by the time Frank finishes with round one.

               “Tell me why you’re here, Red,” Frank says, refusing to lay another hand until the Devil gives him what he wants. “Why’re we back here, again? What’d you do?”  
  
               Red’s groan turns into a laugh. “I forgot to do my homework.”

               Frank slaps his left cheek so hard, blood vessels burst. Red’s hips buck into the workbench, and he laughs again.

               “I didn’t clean my room.”  
  
               “This funny to you? This a joke?”  
  
               Red’s head shakes, knocking little beads of perspiration onto the bench. His hair gleams scarlet under the harsh glare of Frank’s swaying overhead lamp. His arms strain against the rope yanking them overhead. “It’s a little funny.”  
  
               “Oh, yeah?” Frank lays into him at a steady pace – _slap, slap, slap_ – getting the colour on Red’s ass to deepen. Red’s legs spasm in the manacles and he thrashes uselessly on the tabletop, his jaw coming unhinged as groan after groan pushes their way out of his throat. “You like this, Red? This what you want?”  
  
               “Oh, yeah, Frank,” Red says, somehow still capable of sarcasm, “Yeah, this is what I want.”

               Frank’s palm stings. He switches hands and picks up the pace, aiming for the insides of Red’s thighs. “You get off on pain? That why you don’t wear armour? That why you don’t protect yourself? This what you are, Red? This what you do? You go out looking for guys to hurt you?”

               “Don’t need to look very hard.” Red coughs, gasps, and sputters, but he still says, through clenched teeth, “I got you, Frank.”

               Frank stops himself mid-slap. He jabs two fingers into the twerp’s perineum and doesn’t stop til Red’s on tiptoes, back arching sharply against his bound arms. The noises coming out of his mouth stop, dissipating into short bursts of air, the kind that tell Frank he hurts. He hurts real bad. Red’s a mouthy little shit when it’s manageable, but he clams the fuck up when he needs to regroup.

               “You ain’t got me,” Frank says. He stretches out a thumb, searing for Red’s tight little asshole. “Ain’t nobody got me. You’re mine, Red, you hear me?”

               He goes to put his thumb in Red, but his nail clicks against something hard. Frank looks and finds the glass base of a plug sticking out of Red’s hole. Small, discrete. Barely noticeable under the overhead light. 

               Frank pulls his hands away. He pulls his whole self away. “The fuck-?”  
  
               Red shifts on the workbench, turning his reddened ass up into the light. All those bruises, all those welts, all that red, and he’s been getting off the whole time. He lets out a small, breathless laugh into the tabletop he’s strung across, his straining arms causing the ropes to release a satisfied sigh on his behalf. “I hear you, Frank,” he says, trying to catch his breath, “ _You’re mine_.”  
  
               Frank winds up for another blow. He stops himself. It’s what the little shit wants. Jabbing his hips up against the workbench. Got that dinky little plug rattling against his prostate. Still wearing that fucking black get-up after weeks of Frank bruising his ass to get him to stop.

               Frank grabs his coat, his keys, and gets the hell out of there. He doesn’t come back till daylight, and when he does, the bench is empty. Rope snapped, cuffs picked, manacles broken, ‘cuz the Devil knew how to get out of them all along. 

* * *

 

Happy Reading.

 


	2. Alternate Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I received a prompt on Tumblr asking for a softer ending that included aftercare. Please, enjoy!

* * *

 

Frank is gone less than an hour when his anger finally gives way to different anger. The shit he was feeling about Red becomes shit he feels about leaving Red, and God damn, he’s such an idiot, letting it get this far. Manacles on the desk, slapping Red’s ass like he’s a delinquent toddler – which he is, but that’s beside the point. Frank didn’t sign-up to feed whatever psychosexual bullshit Red’s hungry for, and fine, maybe spanking Red’s ass sent a mixed message, but who the hell stuffs themselves full of a butt plug because their ass is getting smacked?

               God damn it, Red.

               Frank stops at a pharmacy. He doesn’t want to, but he does it, stocking up on cold packs and sports drinks and meal replacement bars. He grabs some sweet shit too, for the sugar. Red’s electrolytes are probably in the tank, and Frank wants the dumbass good and fucking cogent for when they chat about what is and what isn’t going to happen from thereon out.

               He can hear Red groaning as he steps inside the safehouse, but the sounds go quiet suddenly. Red’s attempt to hide in plain sight, put his brave face on even though he probably can’t feel his hands. He might have popped one of his shoulders trying to get away. Frank heads down into the basement preparing for the worst, but Red’s little worse for wear. Sweatier, maybe. His shoulders are wrenched. One of his lips is cut from scraping against the worktable. His ass is maroon, and the bruises aren’t nowhere near done deepening. They’ll be purple by dawn. Black in places by the day after.

               Frank puts down the bag. He’s about to say something, but hell if he knows what to say. Especially not when Red twists his head, revealing a crooked smirk, and asks, “You uh…come back to finish me off?”   
               “That what you after, Red?”

               Red shakes his head. He balances his nose and forehead on the table, his arms creaking in their sockets. Looks like something out of a horror movie, some fucked up angel using his own arms for wings. “Pretty sure I finished myself off trying to get out of here.”   
  
               “It’s fucked up, Red. You’re fucked up.”   
  
               “Yeah,” Red says, “But so are you, Frank. I mean –“ he grunts, eyelids fluttering, hands twitching in their bonds. He comes back to himself by jerking his hips hard against the table. “Ankle braces? Handcuffs? Spanking?”   
  
               “Wouldn’t hurt if you were wearing armour.”

               “There are easier ways to convince me to wear amour.”

               “None that work.”

               “This isn’t working.”   
  
               “It’s working for you,” Frank says. He comes back over to where Red’s bent double. He puts a hand over the mottled skin of Red’s ass and thighs, examining the mess he’s made. Red springs up at the waist and shivers in spite of himself. His eyelids flutter for a new reason.

               Frank grips the plug by the base, and Red clams up. Really hurt him, he hides; Frank wonders if the same happens for the opposite. He pushes at the plug, causing Red’s back to arch, his arms to twist. “Frank, Frank –“ his voice has an odd begging quality to it, one Frank abides for the time being. Fascinating to watch someone run from the good and leap headlong into the bad, but that’s Red in a nutshell.

               Frank pulls a knife out from his pocket, reaches across the table, and cuts the rope holding on Red’s cuffs. Red cries out; his arms spring back. Frank catches him and gently eases his arms down onto his lower back. Red gasps into the tabletop the whole time, hips bucking helplessly against the rest of his bonds.

               Frank leaves his hand on Red’s upper back, the spot between his shoulders, uncertain of where to go from there. Unlock his ankles, Red’s likely to attack, and Frank isn’t fighting him, not like this, not ever again if that’s what the dumbass is into. “Truce, Red?” he says.

               “Not on your life,” Red laughs.

               “Hm.” Figures. Frank withdraws his hand. He puts himself right behind Red’s reddened ass, and as he kneels, he lets his nose touch the bruising. He lets his stubble prick and graze across the ravaged flesh. He fires a breath across Red’s balls, and Red shakes, grunting, his balls retracting slightly as his dick hardens.

               Frank spies a thread of perspiration trickling down from Red’s ass. He brings his mouth down on top of it, letting his tongue retrace the steps all the way back to the crack. Red springs up, gasping some more, but this time the begging is of a different quality. His face knocks into the wood of the desk. His breath comes in a short bursts. He doesn’t notice that Frank has unlocked one of the manacles.

               Frank runs his tongue around the base of the plug. Red lunges forward, leg muscles tightening. His arms snapping uselessly against the cuffs. He jabs his hips forward into the table, and he whimpers, completely unaware that his second ankle has come free.

               “Guess getting smacked around isn’t the only thing you like,” Frank notes, rising back to his full height.

               Red quivers on the table like a leaf on the breeze. “Maybe it’s just you,” he offers only half-sarcastically.

               “Sure, it is,” Frank says, taking Red by the waist. Red struggles, but his legs are shaking too bad to be much help. He’s easy to lift with his arms tied behind his back, the strength drained out of the rest of him. Frank scoops Red under the arms and knees, and he carries him away from the table. Red shakes the whole damn way up the stairs into the bathroom on the main floor, but he doesn’t try to escape, not even when Frank puts him on his two feet, standing him more-or-less upright at the far end of the tub.

               Red eases his bruised ass into the tiled wall, hissing as the chill eases through him. “You uh…” he rattles his cuffed hands, “You gonna take these off?”   
  
               “You want me to take those off?”

               Frank isn’t sure what Red’s shrug means, so he leaves the cuffs where they are. He gets the water running in the shower, lukewarm. Then he starts unlacing Red’s boots.

               “What are you doing?”

               “Shut up,” Frank says.

               “Seriously, what-?”   
  
               “I said _shut up_.”

               The boots come off one by one. Red goes slow and steady, working with Frank instead of against him. He barely flinches when his pants come down the rest of the way. His face does screw up tight, however, just for a second – eyes shut, mouth shut, everything stacked into hard lines like he’s trying so hard to get away.

               Frank gives Red a minute by getting undressed himself. He takes his knife from his pocket. When he steps back into the tub, Red’s eyes are open, but he’s got his eyes towards the ceiling, trying to distance himself from the proceedings. He doesn’t come back till the tip of the knife presses into his waist.

               “You’re gonna start wearing armour,” Frank says.

               Red laughs. “Or what, Frank?”

               “Or nothing. You’re going to start wearing armour. After tonight.”

               The knife cuts through the hem of Red’s shirt so easily it doesn’t make a sound. Frank slashes a clean line up the chest, yanking hard at the neckline. He doesn’t so much as nick Red with the blade when he brings the knife back for another cut. “You’re going to take care of yourself,” he says, cutting down the arms, stopping shy where the elbows disappear behind Red’s back. “You’re going to protect yourself.”

               Frank closes the knife and tosses it onto the countertop nearby. Red goes to track it, but he’s distracted by Frank scooping an arm between his side and his cuffed arm. He comes back, face hard and battle ready, as Frank closes his fingers around the neck of the ruined shirt from behind.

               “Or what?” Red demands.

               “Or I’m never touching you again,” Frank says.

               He yanks on the neck of the shirt, tearing it off Red’s chest. It dangles on Red’s bound wrists; Frank rips, hard, snapping the flimsy sleeves. He grabs the chain of the cuffs and twists, yanking Red so their chests touch. The water splashing against Frank’s back feels cold against his skin now, no match for the heat rising inside him.

               “What makes you think I want you to touch me?” Red says, his voice that low, husky Devil-drawl.

               “Because I’m the only one who knows how to touch you,” Frank says. He wraps another hand around Red and grips the base of the plug that the little shit is still riding. Red’s face cracks; his shoulders slouch forward. He loses the fight against moaning. “I am the only one you ever want touching you. That’s why you dress your sweet ass up in those cargo pants. That’s why you get off on me smacking you around. I know you, Red. You got me, see? But not near as bad as I got you.”   
  
               He kisses the little shit before he gets any back-sass. No surprise that Red’s all darting tongue and sharp teeth. Frank weathers a bite to his lips and tongue by jerking that plug around in Red’s ass, earning a few more moans and a gasp before Red finally pulls back, his head sagging on his neck. Frank releases the plug and draws his hand through Red’s hair, scooping him up by the scalp. He twists, bringing Red under the full spray of the shower, and then kisses him again.

               The water runs all kinds of distractions: Red’s attention shifts from skin to sounds to tastes, and Frank takes note of every single one of them. He presses every button, plays every sensation, drawing moan after moan out of Red. By the time Frank goes back for the plug, Red isn’t even aware of its existence. He’s too overcome by water and the hand Frank has on his dick to so much as blink when the plug comes out and goes to one of the shelves in the shower.

               But Frank makes damn sure Red notices when he puts his fingers in. He wants that, the sudden opening of Red’s eyes, the parting of his lips. He wants that surprise. And before Red can make a sound, Frank spreads his fingers and thrusts from behind, spreading Red’s ass onto his knuckles. He grips Red’s dick from the front and lets the momentum carry Red deeper into his hands.

               He works Red just like that – thrusting from behind, then the front, then behind again. Little shit likes being bounced between extremes, and he sure as hell loves this. “Don’t you, Red? You only like it when I touch you. I’m the only one who knows how.” Frank slows his pace, letting Red catch his breath under the spray of water. “You don’t even have to say it. I know. And you’re going to wear armour after tonight. Dress yourself up in that fucking costume of yours. Because you don’t want me never touching you again.”

               Red groans, muttering a comeback of some kind. Frank goes harder, shutting Red right the fuck up, the water freezing from all the heat they’ve created between them, a blast chill that rains down, muffling Frank’s diatribe to anyone ears except for Red’s own.

               Red finishes with a shout, his whole body quaking. Frank catches him against his chest, letting the water rush down over them, soothing bruises and muscles and that ache, that ache that Frank’s only just noticing, the one screaming for this. For Red in his hands, pressed so close that their hearts are duking it out across their ribcages. Frank doesn’t break their contact even as he shuts the water off and grabs a towel from the rack. He dries Red off with quick strokes, taking in the drooping eyelids and mouth ajar, the limpening limbs. The cuffs sag around his lifeless wrists. Frank unbuckles them and leaves them in the shower when he picks Red up and carries him again.

               The bed is unmade; all the easier to clear it when Frank goes to lay Red down. Strewn out flat, the rest of his skin exposed, the angry welts on Red’s ass beam. Frank runs a hand over them lightly – “I’ll be back” – and he goes to grab the bag of stuff he bought. He cracks ice packs, laying them over his handiwork before covering them with blankets. Then he gives Red a few sips of one of the drinks before rubbing into Red’s shoulders.

               Red moans.

               “Too much?” Frank asks in that tone they’ve been using, the one that’s just for them.

               “ _Harder_ ,” Red says.

               “Haven’t you had enough?”   
  
               “Have you?”

               Frank digs into him. “Never had enough of you,” he says.

               Red sighs contentedly and slips out of awareness for a bit. He comes round with a moan and a sputter when Frank rubs Tiger Balm into his shoulders. “You’ll thank me later,” Frank tells him, “Or maybe you’re thanking me now, this hurts bad enough.” Red shoves his face into the pillow and gives Frank the finger, and Frank checks-in on him, making sure he doesn’t smother himself as the smell dissipates.

               The strategy is lost on Red, for which Frank’s grateful. Nothing the Devil wants more than something to clear the taste of spice out of his mouth, so he doesn’t bitch or fight when Frank starts shoving food and drink at him. He slips back into subspace after that, exhausted, and Frank’s fine with leaving him there. “Nice reprieve from your smartass mouth,” he says.   
               “You love my smartass mouth,” Red drawls with a smirk.

               “Shut up.” Frank crawls under the covers next to him. He wraps an arm around Red’s neck and tugs him close, fingers roving through the short wisps of Red’s hair gently, because he knows that’s exactly how Red needs to be touched right now.  

* * *

Happy Reading!

 


End file.
